Quasi Una Fantasia
by Melpomene melancholica
Summary: a repository of drabbles, vignettes, one-shots, etc. usually responses to challenges or prompts, usually from LJ communities dormant muses or 31days. mostly chiaki- & nodame-centric
1. Who's The Man?

Disclaimer: Merely borrowing existing characters to pass time. Something like that. No monetary gain whatsoever.

**Quasi Una Fantasia**  
a repository of drabbles, vignettes, one-shots, etc  
responses to challenges or prompts, usually from LJ communities dormantmuses or 31days.  
title mooched from the works of Beethoven, which was the inspiration for one of the entries here.

Who's the Man

_dormant muses community activity / challenge  
Dear Santa Anonymous Request Challenge  
Request as follows: "who's the man?" Kiyora, Mine  
_  
13:44 121407

The Uraken chinese place nearby the Momogaoka Music Academy was plastered with various posters of the famous RS orchestra, both current and former ones. There was even a sort of shrine for the founding members, many of whom special value meals were named after. These talented individuals have sprung from the elite group, some of them pursuing their dreams in shores far from Japan. Notable was the simple poster that announced a certain Roux Marlett orchestra performance, and the near-legendary Chiaki Shinichi, the original conductor of RS. It wasn't the only poster there that wasn't written with the familiar scripts of Nihongo.

A more prominent spread was tacked up beside it, a blaze of red velvet and the flamboyant arc of a slim tanned limb drawing back mid-bowing, a wealth of ebony forever captured as a shimmery curtain billowing open to reveal the exquisite visage of the sublime muse of music. Almost beyond the human instinct to quantify and sort, it was merely the slight curves on her lithe body that screamed her gender, never mind the no-nonsense slacks she wore. The Oriental Red Ruby, the co-founder of RS orchestra, Miki Kiyora. . . with the merest touch of sunlight, she ignites into living fire. An ocean and a continent away, Mine Ryuutaro still basked under her light.

"Kiyora-chan," he murmured with utter adoration. This was obeisance he gave, regular as clock work, morning, noon, and evening. It usually preceded a meal. He would rub his face rather vigorously on the glossy surface of the poster, and plunk himself in front of food (in this case, lunch), and sigh through most of the meal, daydreaming about the wide-open future and the eventual transection of their respective paths. In between, he would go to graduate school or to practice, be it with his beloved orchestra or by himself. He was true to his word, after all. He did keep to busy to even consider cheating on her. (Not that he would dare in the first place. She did pack a mean right hook.)

"What is he doing, anyway?" Noriyuki Takahashi finally asked, resident concertmaster of RS, who had a short-lived rivalry with the pictured woman.

"Fangirling," Sakura said, with a sigh. "Something about a ritual for the preservation of fated love."

"Fangirling?"

"Well, fan_boy_, if you want to be politically correct about it."

"For _that_ woman?" Takahashi did not recall his predecessor with the fondest of memories.

"You should see him when they have their weekly conversation. Mine-kun tends to fall apart during overseas phone calls, despite what he says."

"You're kidding. . . What's so special about that asexual, dispassionate, man-robot?"

"What did you say!" Mine demanded, abruptly cut-off from his sweet imaginings.

Masumi Okuyama watched as the bleach-blond jumped on the concertmaster.

"He can be manly sometimes, I suppose," the timpanist remarked amidst battlecries in the background. "For Kiyora's sake, I'm a little relieved."

"Take it back, you little– " Mine was practically breathing fire. "Take it back or I'll serve you up for Christmas dinner! Roasted duck, you—Do it!"

"I always did wonder who wore the pants in that relationship. . ." Masumi continued musing aloud. "Not that I particularly care about prescribed norms and such."

"Yeah, that's what I said! Who's the man? Who's the man, you little punk?"

Which was basically the last intelligible thing he had to say before the wobbling Takehashi scissor-kicked him and proceeded to wrestle with his fellow violinist. Eventually, Masumi joined in—he never strayed too far away when the self-absorbed Takahashi was having a disagreement with somebody—when the golden name of Chiaki Shinichi somehow got thrown into the mix.

(Sakura sneaked away at some point, her conscience clear. By experience, she was usually pretty powerless when the three man, despite of their usual images, started flexing their muscles at each other.)

15:54 121407

Index:

1. Who's the Man / Kiyora, Mine, others RS members / G

2. Modern Inconvenience / Chiaki introspective on Nodame / G

3. The Sleeper / Chiaki, Nodame one-shot, future / PG

4. Almost Fantasies / Chiaki, Nodame one-shot / G

5. Dreams of / Chiaki (and Nodame) vignette / on Nodame / PG

6. Euphemisms / Chiaki, Nodame one-shot, future / T

7. Grounded / Chiaki Shinichi, Masayuki, Nodame / one-shot, future / PG

8. The Great Kotatsu Pile-up / The entire gang in France + Masumi and Mine / vignette / G

9. Pinnacle of a Lifetime / Chiaki, Tanya, Kuroki, Frank / future fic / vignette / G

10. On Proofreading and Friendlocking / Chiaki, Nodame, Masumi / vignette / PG 13

11. Know Your Role / Chiaki, Nodame, Elise, unnamed OC / vignette / PG 13


	2. Modern Inconvenience

Disclaimer: See previous.

Modern Inconvenience

_dormant muses community activity / challenge  
Dear Santa Anonymous Request Challenge  
Request as follows:_

_Nodame Cantible _

_Prompt: January_

03:10 121707

There was something he found pleasing about the winter months, particularly with January, for the glibness of winter has yet to grate despair into the human psyche, and the promise of a brand-new start, of metamorphosis has yet to grow stale. There was a certain sensation that came with the cold, a certain contraction of the world, of anything, a narrowing, a centering around. . . densities—the hearth, the home, the family, things like that. There was a definite shift to the patterns of everyday living. People banded together, closer, it seemed, and those who did not, starkly stood out.

France had an involved history with Christianity, like many of Western Europe, at some point even becoming the seat of Christendom, when the papacy was moved to Avignon in the Dark Ages. Perhaps, it was the sudden lassitude that followed the rush of the holidays, especially in this modern age where everything moved swiftly and inexorably. Perhaps, this could account for that vise-like sensation.

Perhaps, even he needed something to clutch on to at times.

"Gyabo," came the muffled exclamation.

It wasn't exactly a protest. It was more of a mark of surprise—he must have hit her with a bony prominence when he flung an arm about her form—the spell of the exquisitely aged wine having thrown a blanket over a more expected out-of-this-world reaction. But Noda Megumi was apparently floating away blissfully to some fantasy world, of which the less he knew about the better. She did nothing more than burrow herself deeper into his embrace.

There was still no school tomorrow, so he had been able to convince (bully) her into simply playing the piano (for him, solely, but he wouldn't own to such a selfish reason; besides, practice was practice), while he listened and unwound with a bottle of red. She was also heckled into drinking with him, so the inexplicable alien creature eventually mellowed down into something resembling kittenish, which could explain their current positions at the moment.

Despite modern conveniences made available by the generous stipend from the Miyoshi family, it could still get very cold in the apartment. Ice emanated from the windows in tiny, insidious wisps. It was easy then, to acquiesce to the temptations of that evil contraption. It was easy to sink deeper into the abysmal clutches of that thing. It was easy it pretend he was that far gone in sleep, easy to pretend he didn't feel her sneak her way into his side of the _kotatsu_. (It was with the same ease he had lectured about the winter months being conducive to the propagation of disease, about the health hazard of even trying to live in that hellhole of a place she called her home, about eco-friendly measures and the energy efficiency of simply heating a single apartment instead of two—an uncharacteristically frugal statement, coming from him.)

Chiaki Shinichi, a complexly intelligent man prone to rationalizing, was adept at making such excuses. Beyond those vague, alcohol-clouded thoughts of his, there were two uncomplicated realizations: one, she was like a hot-water bottle when just so inebriated, and two, Tanya's gift of bathing essentials were right on the money. Nodame smelled of milk and gingerbread cookies, downright tasty, he was inclined to think, much to the protestations of several layers of his overcast mind.

(Well, what was so simply _was_. All the more reason to press his nose closer to her hair, to breathe her in, and blame it on those expensive scented soaps.)

Ah, and a third one: it was also very pleasing to see _it_ glint around her neck, as she shifted when she breathed. A concession to her requested ring, the necklace was not quite as challenging, frightening. It was not so much a collar, as another suggested to him, but was more like a marker. It was removable and impermanent, a trinket she could choose to wear or not. Not exactly a declaration of ownership, but perhaps a precursor to a claim. . .?

It was such a primal, self-gratifying notion, that Shinichi dismissed it as a mere by-product of the usual troubling dreams that plagued him now and then. He must be asleep, he reasoned vaguely, and rolled even closer, smaller, into the depths of the heated table, the Christmas quilt, and the decidedly female contours of his companion.

Within minutes, he truly was so.

121707 03:54


	3. The Sleeper

Disclaimer: Borrowing. I get food by doing more painful things around forty hours a week.

The Sleeper

January 13: the best article in the market

Chiaki Shinichi took a few minutes to work his jaw loose, before doing the same to his temper.

"What the hell are you wearing!?" he demanded.

Really, the woman was impossible. It's been months since they've been in the same room for longer than a couple of hours. Their three young children were all with his mother, off for a seaside romp in Southern France. Meanwhile, his wife, who've been living off a suitcase for the last six weeks, didn't even have the forethought of attiring herself in anyway whatsoever that indicated she really missed her husband as fervently as she proclaimed she did.

(Then again, whoever said Nodame and "forethought" belonged in the same sentence?)

"Mukya?" The nonsensical expression was puzzled. "What's wrong with it?"

What was right with it? It was a bulky, one-piece thing that seemed to have neither a beginning or an ending. It was a hot pink bodysuit of sorts, flooded with toxic green ducks that reminded him of a freakishly bad _foie gras_ he once had to endure during a socialite gathering he was forced to attend (which _she_ had later thrown up on him). She was blinding, in a decidedly not pleasant way.

"You don't like it, anata?" She sounded forlorn, like an abandoned child.

"What's there to like?" he retorted. It was cheap, tasteless, and inconvenient. He wanted to tear it off her and burn it. "Why are you wearing that of all things? And, anyway, what _is_ that?"

"I got it in a flea market in Florida," she said brightly. "I saw it and immediately thought of you! Besides, it was three for ten dollars----quite a bargain, they told me. I've also ran out funds at that point, what with all the stuff I got for the three eggs in Disney World. Anata, we _must_ fly the eggs there. It'll be a crime to just allow their childhood to fritter by without first going through Mickey Mouse!"

"First of all, I'm not going on a plane for some giant rodent---and isn't there a Disney in both Japan and France? More importantly, what on earth made you associate me with that hideous piece of rag?"

Nodame paused, tittered, and then put both hands to her face as if to protect her modesty. "I can't tell you, anata," she said. "I really can't."

He glanced at her suspiciously. "What sort of weird fantasy is running through your head right now?"

Ordinarily, he'd demand she keep it to herself. Right now, he was frustrated enough to try to find some rational explanation for her action. (Not to say, her actions were always meaningless. She did everything for a reason, but it wasn't always rational for both of them, or for the rest of the human world, for that matter.)

"Not fantasy," she corrected. "Reminisces, more like it."

"Reminisces?"

"Yes, mukya, reminisces! It must be the sign of Eld coming."

Chiaki, though not quite mollified, was somehow curious. "Eld? Reminisces? What spurred this on?"

"Remember when you were in Brussels, and I was here keeping the Nest? That time we were talking about Seiko-mama's plans to take the kids for vacation in your family's summer villa? You called back to change plans, because you said you wanted the two of us to stay home for a few days before following them?"

"Yes, yes. Neither of us has really been home enough to relax. You agreed with me."

"Uh-huh. And then you said it'll be like old times and-and---Mukya!" She smothered her girlish giggles on her mittenned hands.

"I don't remember that!" he protested, cheeks reddening in spite of himself. He must have been slightly tipsy then, he figured.

"I realize you were probably drinking away your guilt that night---Miyako's and Shinobu's birthdays, remember? You were probably only babbling stuff, but actually, I've been wondering what you meant by it."

A couple of months ago then, he recalled, when his train was delayed and he wasn't able to reach home in time. Miyako had been born a few minutes before midnight, while Shinobu came four hours later, so they didn't technically share the same birthday. Regardless, he had been celebrating for both their fifth birthdays that night, but he wasn't that fargone yet, when he called home a third time that evening. He couldn't have said that, could he? With no other choice but to go forward, he flipped the question back to his wife. "What do you think I meant by it?" he asked.

"I wasn't sure, actually. There's too many possible meanings to it. Do you mean the old days before the Eggs came? Or the old days when I was in the Conservatoire? Or even older, the ones back in Momogaoka? What do you think?"

"The ones older than any of those."

"Gyabo. Nodame wasn't there yet."

"Anyway, what was with that excited-squeal thing? Sounds fishy to me."

"Oh, I was thinking about how you'd cook for me or bathe me---"

"I didn't bathe you then and I still cook for you, nowadays," he pointed out with a frown.

"Or how we'd study together---"

"I studied; you were usually being a nuisance."

"Or how you taught me and helped me with a piece for hours at a time--"

"Or tried to."

"Or lorded over my playing and told me how you want things to go even when I wasn't asking your opinion."

". . . lorded over, indeed."

"Or how we'd cuddle under the kotatsu some cold winter nights or take long, wandering walks. . . among other things." She flopped down on the carpeted floor and began playing with his bare feet. "You took good care of me those days, didn't you, Shinichi? Even though you were grumpy and grudging about it--"

"Hey!" he protested again, a little more violently. "I wasn't grudging."

"Grumpy and grudging and mean," she barreled on blithely. "And it took us some time to both grow up, didn't it?"

"Yes," he acquiesced with a small smile. Both of them. "It did." He beckoned for her to sit beside him on the couch, and she eagerly jumped to the space beside him.

"Nowadays, Nodame takes good care of both anata and their the three eggs. In between, she's a well-liked pianist, who's completely _en face_ with music. It's kinda like giving birth each time, you know? Fertilized with music, my results have been pretty fecund, I think."

Well-liked was an understatement. Noda Megumi was known to have worshipers, cultists, even. She snuggled against him comfortably, puppy-like, and he wondered what her legions would make of such a scene.

"I really was a baby, back then, compared to now, wasn't I?"

He nodded. "What about me?"

"Hmm. . ." Her hair smelled faintly of apples. She must have bathed recently. "A brat. Not quite a baby, but definitely a brat."

"A brat," he intoned levelly.

"A spoiled brat," she amended with flourish. "Aren't you proud of us, senpai?"

Senpai, huh? It's been a while since she called him that. Mostly it was anata or papa bird. If she felt like playing Yamato Nadeshiko (or if she was somehow pissed), she'd call him Chiaki-san.

"Aren't you?" she prompted again, her breath hot against his ear.

". . . of course, I am," he muttered. "At least, you don't burn the stuff I stockpile-cook when you reheat it. Not anymore, anyway. So is this why you're wearing this sleeper thing? Baby cosplay of some sort?"

"I wanted you to play a pederast---G-gyabo! Yes, yes, it was c-comfortable and made me feel like a b-baby. Now, let go off my windpipe, please. It's too early f-for a tie-me-up romp."

Hastily, he relinquished her neck, curling away from her and refocusing his attention back to the score he had been perusing.

"Now, senpai," she coaxed, burrowing herself back to his arms. "Tell me the real reason you hate Nodame's attire."

He was determined not to give her the satisfaction of an answer.

"I'll tickle it out of you," she threatened.

". . ."

"You know I'll win."

He muttered something barely intelligible.

"What did you say, anata? Buttons?"

"Oh, shut up."

Nodame shook with muted hilarity. "Don't worry, senpai," she assured him. "Nodame will help you with that. Just like old times, huh?"

Now, that, he decided was a little below the belt. Chiaki Shinichi didn't bother to argue back. He was too old for street fights, maybe, but certainly not for what they both wanted.

"How does Kyo say it again?" he asked instead, his hands finally abandoning the score for something more yielding. (Their three-year-old had decided he was an aspiring rap artist that month.) "Bring it?"

"Oh, I will."

011308 1705


	4. Almost Fantasies

Disclaimer: Nope. No delusions of grandeur here. Not my characters.

Almost Fantasies

_January 23: if music is the food of love, play on_

In Noda Megumi's own words, this particular Beethoven piece began with a brooding lament, Princess Serenity's lullaby as she pined for the slumbering Endymion. (The goddess Selene, he had corrected absently, before realizing she probably wasn't referring to the mythological shepherd Zeus gifted with eternal youth and eternal sleep.) She saw the gradual darkening of the skies, she said, the coming of a lonely sort of rain that threatened little forest animals and the hanging laundry. Suffice to say, it wasn't her usual fare, one she wouldn't foray into independently.

He asked her why she had agreed so readily to her host's request to add it to her next performance.

The woman in question didn't answer immediately, studiously working through the piece with that certain intensity she habitually slipped into nowadays. She paused in between movements, a long while after, and spoke up, a mysterious smile playing on her lips.

"Nodame was feeling adventurous," she said.

Which would have been a sufficient, inoffensive answer in Chiaki Shinichi's opinion. The smile, however, puckered into her trademark fish-lips, as she pondered on his question further.

"It's the darkness in it that makes it famous," she added sagely. "The bad feelings just sort build up and brew---drudgery, drudgery, muck and sulk. Then, suddenly, after a tiny shaft of sunlight manges to escape, you have a storm, a _kami_ losing its temper! But it's such an attractive piece, anyway. It should be worth a try, though it is a little hard for Nodame to restrain herself in the first bits."

"So it's to broaden your horizon then. To gain experience."

"Hmm. . . To taste something different, more like it," Nodame corrected. "And it's good to date other types once in a while, wouldn't you say, senpai?"

Irrationally, the statement somehow irked him. He smacked her with the score before rearranging it open to where it was before he started leafing through it. Instead of standing over her to critique her playing, he shuffled back to the kitchen to repair the testaments to his three-week absence.

"Mukya," she muttered as he went. "Nodame goes stag again tonight."

Amidst her halting and repetitive renditions of the stormy third movement, Chiaki cleaned the havoc she left in his kitchen, scouring the scorch marks on pots, pans, and the stove-top _presto agitato_. He stopped abruptly, noting that the thunderstorm---the piano, rather---had stopped. He went back to a few more minutes of scrubbing, before abandoning the sponge and curiously making his way back to the living room.

"So now we're playing hide-and-seek?" she said happily, suddenly thrusting her scrunched up face inches away from his and nearly ripping him out of his skin.

"Hiieee--!" His damp hand engulfed her entire face as he struggled to push her away. Even before it left his mouth, his tirade about her stalking habits stuttered to a stop when he felt a stealthy kiss on his palm, (accompanied by a little bit of her tongue, perhaps).

"Senpai," came her muffled admonishment. "This isn't seductive at all. Your hand is wet and pruney, and it tastes like soap."

He virtually shoved her away and wiped his hands on his apron.

"Is something the matter?" she asked, looking up from where he had pushed her down.

He hesitated, fidgeted, and ran a hand through his now unruly hair. "I should be asking that. Why did you stop?"

"Hm? Senpai didn't seem to like it."

"What? What are you talking---"

Nodame shrugged, crablike as she scrambled off the floor. "Anyway, let me play something else."

"Wait, wait, wait," Chiaki commanded in agitation as he followed after her. "Why should your repertoire be limited by what I like? It's your performance; you should play whatever it is you want."

"So senpai really didn't like it?" came the earnest question.

"Who on earth would dislike the Moonlight Sonata?"

"Not just the piece. We're talking about Nodame playing it."

"O-of course, I liked it."

"Not everything is a matter of course."

"It is, apparently," he said with an air of weary resignation. "I can't seem to dislike your piano. Didn't I tell you that before?"

"But of course," she quipped blithely. "Though Nodame won't mind hearing senpai say it again."

"You-"

But Nodame had once again inched her face close to his. "Won't you get bored of it?" she asked in all seriousness.

"What do you mean get bored with it?" he burst out in spite of himself. "If you're just baiting me again---" Recovering abruptly, he regained his blase expression and turned the question back to her. "Anyway, you're the one with the wild imagination and the hentai mind," he accused. "Aren't you more likely to get bored with a normal person like me?"

"Shinichi can never get boring," she assured him. "Or normal, for that matter."

". . . What's with that expression?" The mysterious smile had crept back to her face.

"Well, I'm glad senpai approves," she said instead, her expression turning back to a semblance of normalcy. She sat back down in front of the piano, and readied to play again. "Nodame wasn't planning on changing the program, anyway. I thought I was going to have to practice that piece solely at the Conservatory, is all."

"Oi!"

"But of course," she said indignantly, pausing to glare at him. "Senpai is Nodame's boyfriend, not her personal pocket god."

Taken a back, he demurred, "What do you mean, personal pocket god?"

But she was no longer paying attention to him, so his show of displeasure was wasted. She returned to the more cheerful billows and eddies of the second movement, her big hands weaving their magic about the ivory keys with their usual brilliance, taking advantage of the lighter mood, the brighter skies. Inevitably, her mouth formed its habitual pout and Chiaki was reminded of the warm tingling that had been her lips against his palm. He shivered, and rubbed the offending hand down his face, as if to erase the sensation. It stayed and even spread to his nape, and low, deep in his belly.

Offhand, she spoke.

"Don't worry, senpai. Nodame will never be adventurous when it comes to dating. She will always be faithful to her beloved Shinichi."

"Who's worried? Just keep playing, Nodame."

With a chortle, his girlfriend obliged.

01:58 012308


	5. Dreams Of

Disclaimer: Alive and still disclaiming.

Dreams of

_January 31: vague, tangled, chaotic, and deeply disturbing_

Forests bore a chock-full of metaphor. They could signify complexity of life, the silence of death, or anything in between---sex, even. He was not much of a nature trekker, preferring the great cities of the Old World, bastions that housed the aesthetically pleasing, the sublime and the depraved borne of human minds, human hands. His inexperience manifested yet again, when he stumbled for the umpteenth time, this time headlong into a prickly bush. Cursing, he scrambled back to his feet, casting about him in hopes of sighting his prey. He thought he had glimpsed the dappled flank of the great striped cat, but being upside down had discombobulated his sense of direction.

A ghost of a laugh floated to his sharp ears; though a discordance with the lilting background, it was not entirely unpleasant. There was also singing. Cherubic voices enthusiastically tackled a cheerful fragment of melody, over and over, a scampering stampede of a round song.

It was getting cloying.

The chortle came once more, an infuriating, beckoning sound. It eluded his grasp; he was left bereft, lost. Thus left behind, he wandered the shifting wood and its morphing trails, slipping into a fanciful semi-wakefulness.

A brook crossed his path. Across from him, the beast stood in all its eye-damaging splendor, with its cacophonous hide of indigo, orange, and old rose. Perhaps, if he caught it and dissected it, analyzed its separate components, he wouldn't be as confused. Maybe its entrails formed some mystical map that would get him the hell out of there.

Or deeper.

Into the woods.

He ran towards it. It ran towards him. He stopped, suddenly unmanned by the animal's seeming show of aggression, of teeth. The creature merely laughed at his mockery of a fighting stance, and dissociated into minute pieces of silver. The babbling stream washed them away, the glinting slivers lost in its suddenly swollen waters.

He stared at the empty spot for a few moments, before proceeding with the ritualistic loin-girding: of course, he would follow. Manfully, he jumped in after it; the icy wetness was somehow most painful against his groin---down his legs, he felt nothing, not even the gravel crunching underfoot. The current swept him away speedily, the creek now a seeming underground river, an inexorable endlessness leading into the same. (Around the circles of hell? The sought-after Elysium?) From aways, he thought he could hear the hum of a motor. The tunnel engulfed him, and so did darkness.

A cheery incandescence greeted him when he opened his eyes. To where, to when, he wasn't sure where the waves had brought him. Suspended, drowning in an aggregate of sensations, he closed his eyes again, sheathing his vision with sanguine. A knot, he pinpointed: at the base of his neck, there was a maddening crick. On his thighs, there was a foreign weight. On his groin, there was a spreading dampness.

Groggily, Chiaki Shinichi raised his hyperextended head and peered down his lap.

A head.

_. . . dead?_

Of course not. Snoring.

The expression on her face was enviable. It halted his initial impulse to jump and run. She effused a certain contentment, even in the way her mouth hung just a tad ajar, just enough to dribble a steady stream of drool down a cheek and to his jeans.

Which explained the heavy sensation on his legs. Good.

He allowed himself to drift closer to wakefulness, pushing himself neither to full awareness nor back to sleep. Beyond the illumination of the living room lamps (he was in his apartment--no, hers now), it was dark. It was night still.

Nodame. A knot of a conundrum, if there ever was one. She was worse than the spasm now torturing his back muscles. Equal parts bemusing, frustrating, and endearing, awake or not. She must have decided to take a short break from her relentless practice (which made him happy and proud, he supposed, but also, secretly, unexpectedly, just a tad wary---discontentment had away of ulcerating insidiously. To where was she rushing? He wasn't that far. He was there.) He supposed it was his own fault for dozing off in the first place, and of course, she would be tired.

Unable to decide on a course of action, the young conductor continued to stare at his sleeping companion. There had always been a baby roundness to her face, and he thought, perhaps, she did fit her teacher's nickname in more ways than one. Her eyes were slightly open, the way a doll's would when tilted up just a little. Briefly, he suspected her faking it, waited for her to launch some bodily attack. But there was movement underneath the curtain of her lashes. Brown fishes swam lazily, meandered back and forth. Inevitably, he followed their paths, somehow lulled by their oscillating direction, hypnotized by the rhythm of her sonorous breathing.

_Whatever you say. Whatever you want._

She shifted abruptly, and her snoring stopped. It also dumped the contents of her mouth over his groin.

"H-"

He swallowed the rest of his high-pitched screech---what if she bit when startled like those rabid strays?!

Gingerly, he moved her head back to its previous position. Like a turning motor, the snoring resumed.

Chiaki sighed, ruefully ignoring the spreading sensation of her saliva against his skin. It was smeared all over her neck now, too, which made her hair stick against her damp skin, matting. He'll be damned if he used his own sleeve for it---he pulled, tugged at her collar and used it to wipe her face and neck dry. With the subtlest of motions, he moved her hair aside, tucked it behind her ears, then moved it out of his cleaning path, anyway. A piece of thread, hanging out of his cardigan, slithered over her nostrils. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose, sneezing once before resuming her snoring. He smirked, even as he bunched more of the fabric on his fist, hiking her dress higher as he reached underneath, to her nape. It was the growing expanse of flesh at the corner of one eye that wiped out the amusement on his face.

_She likes lace on her underwear, she said. _

_Wears them mismatched. _

_Appelez la police!_

Yanking her skirt over her knees, he pulled his arms back to himself, crossing them across his chest, hunching over as if to hide his burning cheeks among them. He kept his eyes averted for a full five minutes, even though. . . whatever he saw was once more concealed underneath the blessed utilitarian cotton. Accident, he assuaged the inexplicable guilt gnawing at his viscera. Everybody knew she was the hentai here; he wasn't going to be accused of molesting anybody, not by her, of all people.

Not that he was doing so, in the first place!

It was moments like these, little inadvertent scenarios like these, that reminded him: not his pet, not some wild beast. This Noda Megumi was all person, all woman.

He squirmed on his seat, her head on his lap now weighing a ton. He was awake now, far, far too capable of thinking thoughts he wasn't prepared to think yet. But, as with every cloud, there was a silver lining. He was also awake enough to formulate a sensible course of action.

He hoped.

He noted the score she had lying open across her chest.

_D_.

Hastily, he pulled the booklet away from the glare, revealing its full title. Piano sonata no. 56 in D Major. Haydn.

Tomorrow, he thought with a sudden, saving clarity. Tomorrow was a school day. Meanwhile, this idiot was sleeping on a sofa, with her typical disregard of her own health. This woman---!

"Oi, Nodame."

He tugged at an arm. It flopped down the side of the sofa, boneless.

"I'm saving you from three days' worth of stiff neck, which I'll be having, apparently. Get up."

She didn't. Irritably, he hauled her to her room himself, depositing her on her side of the bed. He spent a moment glowering at her sleeping face, before fixing her pillow and tucking her in.

"I suppose, even if I leash you to me. . ."

He didn't finish the sentence, as he himself retired to bed and fell back to sleep, back to dream.

1640 012908


	6. Euphemisms

Disclaimer: It's really just wishful thinking, you know? You wouldn't deprive me (us) of it, right?

Euphemisms

_February 21: love me little, love me long_

Slowly but surely, he recovered from the prudent draft he took from Morpheus's sweet dredges. Exhausted by recent exertions (more by the heady anxiety than by any physical demand per se) he had dropped off the odd conversation with his. . . lover now, he realized. It was too profound a realization for one still mired in that half-somnolent state, but it was undeniably consummated now. The fourth or fifth of such consummations, but it was still chaotically and frighteningly new. (And that 'it,' what did that 'it' connote? He was still too stubborn, too proud to verbalize it, but he felt his very chest could burst with fullness---indigestion, she had once compared it to. As it was, he couldn't deny its existence.)

In light of such developments, we must understand why Chiaki Shinichi found the absence, the emptiness on his bed alarmingly, perversely amiss. Fear gripped at his throat as he threw off his blankets and swung swiftly upright. He froze, sitting at the bedside, quickly detecting the distant strains of strings, the piano. He relaxed, but only slightly.

Hastily, he dressed with the first things he found at hand. The wifebeater was an old one, with a conspicuous tear at a flank, while the pajama bottom was apparently hers, as it was too snug for him. He conveniently ignored its overpowering cerulean blue, as well as the multi-colored sheep prancing about the woolly fabric. He scrambled out of the room, nearly tripping in the process on an abandoned formal dress. With difficulty, he managed not think on how its owner looked in its elegant lines only a few nights ago, even as the pajamas ripped at the crotch in his struggle to right himself.

The vague trickle of notes was taking form in his mind; this was what served as his bastion of sanity. First, they took the form of cascading chords, and from there into a forceful, beguiling narrative. Full-toned, rapturously delivered, it was but a soliloquy and was unabashedly lonesome.

Of course. His mind's ear had merely added the wraith-like presence of the entire strings section and the distant rumble of the winds. Rachmaninoff Piano Concerto No. 2: the first movement rendered by a lone pianist. A favorite piece, it was also one that held together a cacophony of memories, a tumultuous beginning to a number of things, one they had both had to desperately study, not just for the sake of learning the piece, but for learning something more profound, something intrinsic to life itself.

He lingered at their bedroom doorway and listened, the torn, mismatched clothes he wore forgotten. They were like spattering drops, the weird sort of rain that was unique to her realm--her dexterous hands would be chasing each other up and down the ivory keys of the baby grand. In spite of himself, his conductor's mind took over. A little too allegro, as she was still wont to lapse to, especially when practicing, he thought with a slight frown. Where was she rushing off to? And then, ah, she caught herself; she slowed, a near-palpable restraint. Against what force, he wondered, even as he matched the tone and tempo of the imaginary orchestra accompanying her in his mind. Curious, he walked silently, till she was half-visible in the low lighting, a sensuous swaying silhouette against the odd mixture of moonlight and incandescence, an alien sight. Is this the showmanship Maestro Stressman had demanded from him oh-so-long ago? It was certainly gripping, certainly spurred his heart to a racing gallop in a sad attempt to pursue its mercurial quarry.

She was still hard to predict, but knew her habits. His orchestra remained deliberate and steadfast against the increasing intensity of the piano's jangling, an auditory world that contained her force. Even as she rambled, scampered ever-so-closer towards the climax, the instruments in his head crested majestically to invaginate her sound. . .

There.

Ponderous and passionate, her music conveyed less of the signature dark despair than an aching yearning stretch for some desirable thing, state, that was only, only a hairsbreadth away, barely reachable, but... then. . . ah, it dissolved, sauntered into the caressing waves of the long, dreamy denouement. (And he wondered, couldn't help but wonder, whether she reached that desired pinnacle or not, whether it was an expression of some latent frustration, discontent.)

She stopped, suddenly, then looked at him, as if waking from a dream.

"Senpai," she said hoarsely, then cleared her throat. "I mean, Shinichi."

"You stopped playing," he remarked neutrally.

"Yes."

"Not quite what you wanted?"

"Ah, no. I haven't played it in a while so. . ."

He frowned. "I don't remember you playing it in any of your performances, or even studying it while you were in school."

"Of course, I played it! How could senpai have forgotten?"

"How could I forget that?" he retorted. "Of course, I remember you obsessing over it back in Momogaoka. Still, that was almost ten years ago. You still remember?"

"How could I forget that?" she echoed. Smiling impishly, she then added, "It helps that Nodame knows how to sightread now."

"You still don't sightread that well," he pointed out.

"Well, I remember most of it. It's not difficult to clear up the bits that are a little foggy."

"I didn't think it foggy in the least. It was an interesting rendition, actually. You just need some more practice."

"I suppose so."

She sat before the piano, silent and motionless, remembering. He came to stand beside her, at his usual spot looking over her shoulder.

"Again?" he prompted.

She nodded her head vaguely, then straightened up. She even ran her hands through her unruly hair, smoothening away the locks sticking out place from her usual bob. Chiaki noted the uncharacteristic self-consciousness but did not comment on it. He supposed, even his hentai had reservations. . . and it was both exhilarating and nerve-racking to know he, she, they had breached new territory, and that it wasn't some dream, that there were hints, slight changes everywhere.

Lips pursed, she began.

It was technically superb, perfect, a rendition he had heard before, though not from her, and definitely different from her first attempt. Again, Chiaki listened without comment, slightly puzzled. He wasn't displeased exactly, but it wasn't what he expected. There was a certain minimalism even in the most intense of the passages. It was brisk and flowing, mature almost, steadfast. It didn't sound like Noda Megumi at all.

Just when he realized it sounded like his old recording of Sergei Rachimaninov's rendition of his own composition, she had stopped once again.

"What's wrong Nodame?"

She didn't answer.

"It wasn't really bad, you know," he struggled. "It was--- It didn't seem like what you were originally going for, and it's not the way I'd conduct it. But we, we can practice for it a lot. Enough for me to-- to know what it is you want and adjust accordingly to still get my vision of the piece." He paused. "Or you can tell me what your vision is and we'll compromise. But first, let's try again."

By the end of his awkward speech, apprehension was evident in his voice. She had her face buried in her hands the entire time, hiding. Chiaki was inclined to think he was somehow directly or indirectly responsible for her state of mind.

"Nodame," he said, his voice now tinged with an underlying defensiveness. But when he touched her on a bare shoulder, it wasn't fraught with the same brusqueness. Finally, his eccentric love raised her head to reveal glimpses of her flushed face in between splayed fingers.

"Jabon, shenpai," she grumbled. "Nodame ish no exhibishionisht."

"What?" he finally erupted, throughly bewildered.

She peered up at him. "You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"What we were talking about? Earlier?"

He squirmed. "No."

"My, somebody needs to work on his stamina."

"Oi!"

"I'm kidding, Shinichi." She dropped her hands to reveal an silly grin. "Anyway, I can't finish it. I'm too embarrassed."

Embarrassed? Chiaki goggled. Since when was this woman ever embarrassed in front of him? He hadn't thought she had the capacity for it.

"This has something to do with the conversation you were referring to earlier?" he pursued manfully.

"Yes."

"The topic of which you don't want to tell me either?"

"M-mukya!" She hid behind her hands again. "Senpai was so pompous and scientific about it, talking about excitement and plateaus and resolution and stuff. Of all things, senpai chose Rachmaninov as analogy! Nodame can't get it out of her head. And. . ."

He was sure his face mirrored hers, but to his credit, he didn't balk. "And?" he urged.

"And Megumi wants to show off, too, but in practice, not theories." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You remember, Shinichi?"

He said neither yea or nay. Instead, he took a hand and raised it to his lips.

She smiled, her usual mischief streaking the euphoria she emanated.

"Come, Megumi."

She followed him.

16:35 021908

AN: massive sweatdrop Sorry, **mikochannoda**. For some reason, I just can't go all the way with this two. Mukya. All I manage to produce is vague, babbling nonsense. (Yes, I did toy with the idea of attempting a lemon with this one, but sorry, can't do it). Inspired by hours of listening to different recordings of Rach 2, in particular the 1st movement by Pierre Entremont and the New York Philharmonic conducted by Leonard Bernstein. (Yes, I'm obsessive, so what? It actually started with Kare Kano and this character Arima Reiji. . . )


	7. Grounded

Disclaimer: Nodame Cantabile is the property of Ninomiya Tomoko, etc. Borrowing for entertainment. No monetary gains whatsoever.

Grounded

_Jan 3, 2011: reach for the stars, so if you fall you land on a cloud_

"That's an odd one," his father said, not for the first time. Their relationship had since progressed into not-uncivilized, and Chiaki Shinichi could only agree with an exhausted sigh.

"We can drink some other time," Masayuki said. "I have a feeling Nodame would insist on joining us."

"Alcohol won't mix well with those muscle relaxants," agreed Shinichi.

Masayuki shrugged. "I don't feel like sharing my chili fries with anybody tonight," he admitted. "At any rate, see you, Shinichi. Give my best to your puzzle-knot of a fiancée."

It wasn't even unlikely that they'll just randomly bump each into other in another part of the globe. Between him and Nodame, they covered quite a bit of ground. New York City was only a stopover, but a blizzard grounded their plane for two days. He supposed a sojourn in Manhattan, however brief and ill-timed, was a well-earned reprieve. It couldn't be helped, and perhaps, he was a bit smug when he told Elise they wouldn't make it to their next assignment in time and that a couple days' delay wouldn't hurt anyone.

In spite of himself, he was a little deflated when they ran into his world-renowned pianist father as Nodame was dragging him through the already grayish snowdrifts in Elizabeth Street with the aggressive strut worth any native's. What followed was a late lunch in some basement in a corner of Chinatown Shinichi didn't even know existed, a wind-blown hike through Soho with frequent stops for curious gawking, and an impromptu bid for the last remaining tickets for a live show in a jazz bar in Greenwich Village.

Sitting in the cramped, low-lit enclosure, knees pressed against hers, Shinichi could only feel relieved that he was feeling his nose once again and that their downtown trek did not result in a fatality. He spoke to soon, of course, for barely an hour later, he had the fright of his life, seeing her flying through empty space and landing on the hard tiles.

She didn't die though, as his father had deadpanned. Something that's easily remedied, Shinichi had snapped in profound irritation. Five hours later, he was half-carrying, half-dragging his somnolent weirdo out of the circus they called Emergency Department, amidst the smart-mouthed comments of Chiaki Masayuki. Shinichi would like to think that his father took the pains of accompanying him in the ER waiting room and even taking them back to their hotel by cab through some paternal sense of magnanimity. A drugged up Nodame was something out of the Twilight Zone, however, so Masayuki was probably just bored in between his black-tie affairs and recitals.

"Is father-in-law going home now?" came the drowsy question from the bathtub.

"Doubt it," Shinichi answered. "He'll probably impose on some local acquaintance and get his dose of alcohol for the night."

"You should have gone."

"And leave you to drown? I'll be arrested for animal cruelty."

"Gyabon!"

"Does your back feel better?"

"Yes." Her coo was appreciative and happy. "Nodame has to hand it to senpai. Your experience as a snooty rich boy served us well, today. Of course, you'll pick a hotel room with a whirlpool bath and other exciting stuff."

He sat on expansive black-tiles that surrounded the tub and smeared soap suds on her face vindictively. "… Exciting stuff." He snorted. "If you didn't show off, maybe."

"Oh, but I had to." Nodame said seriously, popping majority of her head out of the piling bubbles. "Senpai's fiancee isn't very pretty, is a little dumb and kinda clumsy. Of course, Nodame had to pull out all stops to impress her future in-law."

Shinichi gave her a quick peck on her damp head, before he turned to grab towels and a bathrobe. "He wasn't the only one impressed," he confessed. Nodame with her usual buoyant enthusiasm had bounced up the stage to take over half the piano, playing in concert with a band she had never met nor heard before. She juggled, toyed, and spun the notes with the frenetic energy and aplomb that merely built as she, her co-performers, and the audience bounced the excitement around till the improvisation exploded into an overjoyed roar.

"Bob was amazing," she gushed, and a prick of jealously unexpectedly came to Shinichi's awareness. Bob, the jazz pianist, was amazing all right, being able to keep up with her with a rivaling jaunt that no doubt made him famous. Shinichi, however, didn't need to hear her say, "Bob was amazing 3!" like they had just emerged from something more intimate than a performance.

Shinichi acknowledged the green monster and let it go. He was more or less resigned that he'd have to share her to the world-wasn't that his goal from the start? He let her prattle on, if not with the exaggerated hand gestures, at least with the interesting turns of phrase she always used to describe music, even as he helped her off the bath, steadied her as he rinsed off the suds, and dried her with the big, fluffy, white towels.

She was starting to drift off again, where she was carefully arranged among pillows, as he methodically rubbed her hair dry.

"Guess I shouldn't have tried to fly like Woodstock," she said contritely.

Her conductor fiancé took a moment to figure out what she was referring to. "You're off by a good many kilometers and years," he pointed out.

"It's true what they say, isn't it?"

"Hm?"

"One should reach for the stars." Nodame yawned luxuriantly and made invisible snow-angels on the thousand-count sheets.

"Yes, but sometimes you take reaching to extremes, Nodame." He was tired and so didn't go into a more detailed sermon. "It's a good thing you didn't fracture your back or anything else."

"But now I feel like I'm lying in heaven right now, senpai!"

He grunted dourly but didn't argue with her.

"… Shinichi?" she said so long later he thought she had fallen asleep. Nodame, he was sure, was up to something.

"What is it?"

"I asked."

"Who? What?"

"If you prop me up like this, we can still do it." The 'like this' was detailed on a rumpled piece of paper she was holding to his face. It was printed from the Internet and the basic illustrations were accompanied by clear, phlegmatic instructions.

"… You hentai."

01032010 2248

AN: Wow. It's been that long.


	8. The Great Kotatsu Pileup

Disclaimer: Nodame Cantabile is the property of Ninomiya Tomoko, etc. Borrowing for entertainment. No monetary gains whatsoever.

The Great Kotatsu Pile-up

_Jan 11, 2011: Affable drunks_

After what seemed like hours, their stream of gibberish finally tapered to a trickle. The only two people left sitting up straight—they were more bystanders than active participants, anyway—took stock of the damage done. A bottle of white and two reds were downed, surrounded by beer cans. There was a little bit of food left, though no longer edible from all the pawing the party animals did. Their stories were all told, ad nauseam, their voices spent.

"Kiyora-chan and I, we're like soy sauce and wasabi." Even Mine had ran out of his outrageous analogies, had Frank in a modified sleeper hold, and was repeating his stories against an overturned glass. "I'm yummy and she's the fire burnin' yer nose off."

"No more, Mine," muttered the French man in his sleep, kicking the flashy violinist with a spastic movement. "No more flying mongoose."

Masumi-chan had it worst, fending off two giggly drunks clinging on him.

"Tell us again about the pink Mozart, Masumi-chan!" Nodame demanded. "Tell us!"

"Not about to start drama between you and Chiaki-sama just so you two could make up, you hussy," the percussionist sniffed, only his fluffy head visible from under the kotatsu. "You two already live in sin. In sin! Ah, Chiaki-sama! Why?"

"I want to live in sin, too," Tanya declared, straddling the curled form of her fellow pianist. "Nodame, leave your man-problems behind and let's get lava cake on the corner."

"G-gyabon. They might be closed, Tanya."

"Lava cake, lava cake! Open up!"

"Why won't you sin with _me_, Chiaki-samaaaaa~"

Kuroki had his share of drinks, too, though not enough to lose his wits. He was a little relieved he could not completely see what was happening to the three behind the heated table. Mine using Frank's leg as a pretend-violin was disturbing enough as it was.

"You know," he confessed to Chiaki with some measure of envy. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm missing out on something."

"Not really, no," the conductor assured him. "You wouldn't willingly become part of a highway pile up, would you?"

"WHAT? Kuroki had a man-crush on Chiaki? And Chiaki crushes him right back? Why's there no rhyme or reason to your tastes, Chiaki-sama?"

"Mukya~ I wanna see purple Mozart con poco choco! CON POCO CHOCO!"

"You might be right at that," Kuroki conceded with a wince.

"This is a den of vices!" Masumi announced. "I'm going back to Japan. Hiiiieee! NODAME, LET GO!"

"Let's get married, Kiyora! Mawiege ish whaz bwing ush togeza!"

"I'm Frank, you lunatic! Frank!"

Kuroki probably spoke too soon when he said the madness had ended. "If you don't mind," he said a bit hastily. "I think I'll go home now."

18:12 01112011

Because that scene in the movie is just too cute.


	9. Pinnacle of A Lifetime

Disclaimer: Nodame Cantabile is the property of Ninomiya Tomoko, etc. Borrowing for entertainment. No monetary gains whatsoever.

Pinnacle of A Lifetime

_Jan 20, 2011: Space chanson_

"I'm sorry. Nodame couldn't make it after all."

It had been a few years since he had married his irrepressible hentai. Their careers and schedules continued onward, often gunning at breakneck speed. It took a lot of work to coordinate their lives, but he supposed there were merits to being under the same management after all.

Elise was still a slave driver, particularly now that Maestro Stressemann has slowed down his traveling a bit. Since they worked the same circles, keeping in touch with Kuroki and Tanya had been manageable, though not as often as all parties would have liked. Lunch in an old hangout from the three's Conservatoire days was an affair long scheduled, a chance intersection of free time for all.

"That Nodame," sniffed the blonde, sipping at her glass of white to wash away her disappointment. "And who was it that was so excited she stayed up all night chatting online?"

"Megumi-chan is really busy isn't, she?" Kuroki remarked. "Word on the street is that she's been offered the job that will catapult her into legends. I was half-expecting you'd be with her."

"Oh, yes, Yasu thought you were going to cancel, too." Tanya bounced in her seat, barely able to contain her excitement. "So with whom are you performing? New York Phil? Philadelphia Phil?"

"Are you performing that piece she loved so much? That Ravel piece?"

"Rhapsody in Blue! You can totally beast at Gershwin."

That idiot, Chiaki thought darkly. He had never thought she babbled those… memories to other people. A pact between them was just between them, repeated during cool evening walks, murmured over coffee, whispered at wee hours of the morning…

"Or a Rachmaninov piece that would suit your dark bits, Chiaki! I heard from your schoolmates when we visited Japan back then, that you and Nodame played it together all night in your old school. How scandalous! "

Chiaki Shinichi didn't have the heart to tell them that this job didn't have anything to do with him whatsoever, and instead concentrated on decimating the pile of fries in front of him, brooding over his drink and abandonment. He didn't have to say anything. As if on cue, Tanya's cellphone rang, and when she answered, a familiar voice erupted in an indignant rant.

"I can't believe that Nodame!" bemoaned Frank. "Why didn't she tell me she was asked to write the opening song for the 10 year anniversary special of Puri Gorota? We could have collaborated! Why, 'Dame?

"How can you do this to ME?"

Chiaki would never admit it, but there was a little part of him that was relieved he wasn't the only one feeling betrayed.

Pinnacle of a lifetime, indeed.

End.

22:37

01202011


	10. On Proofreading and Friendlocking

Disclaimer: Nodame Cantabile is the property of Ninomiya Tomoko, etc. Borrowing for entertainment. No monetary gains whatsoever.

On Proofreading and Friend-locking

_Jan 26, 2011: eats, shoots and leaves_

Hot, uncomfortable, and frustrated, Nodame was not doing well that summer day. None of the food her husband cooked agreed with her, a problem she had thought she had gotten over weeks ago, and her nested egg was restless. Playing the piano was no good either, as that seemed to excite her egg, making it kick more than usual and in places she'd rather not get kicked. The world-renowned pianist conveniently blamed it all on her Shinichi, who was pointedly ignoring her witch-like mutterings as she brooded over his computer, apparently detailing all his inadequacies in her journal.

"All Chiaki-senpai does is cook shoots and leaves," she said sulkily as she typed. "He may think he's some hungry horse that needs to get rubbed down, but I can't eat it every day."

She went back to slumping over the keyboard and theatrically sighing every once in a while. Finally, Shinichi set his notes and scores aside, and went to her.

"Nodame," he began firmly. "You doctor specifically instructed—"

He was interrupted by the ringing phone. Nodame shot him a bleary, suffering look after the second ring, and picked up the receiver beside her.

"'lo."

The answering shriek was deafening. Shinichi could clearly hear the caller's irate rant from where he stood.

"YOU SHAMELESS HENTAI! HOW CAN YOU TALK ABOUT CHIAKI-SAMA LIKE THAT? THIS IS MORE INFORMATION THAN I EVER WANT TO KNOW IN MY ENTIRE LIFE IN LIKE **EVER**."

"Ma-masumi-chan, you read my post at one in the morni—"

"This is exactly why, you ingrate! If I were you, I would take it whenever I can! Oh, how can you callously rub it in for less fortunate people? I can't forgive you, Nodame. You shouldn't even be discussing this with—"

"But it's so disgusting," his wife wailed. "Green icky stuff… and I burned my tongue."

Masumi sounded like he was having a seizure at the other end of the line. Nodame dodged when Shinichi tried to grab the phone, much more nimble than the bulk of her belly suggested. She tottered to her feet and lumbered away to shut herself in their room.

"It's vegetable soup, Masumi-chan!" he could hear her continue to complain. "Why don't you believe me when I say it's disgusting, even if Shinichi cooked it?"

In spite of himself, Shinichi glanced down at the webpage she had left open on the browser.

_All Chiaki-senpai does is cook, shoots, and leaves. He may think he's hung like a horse that needs to get rubbed, but I can't eat it every day. __

And even worse, he realized something else, seeing the speedily increasing comments underneath.

"NODAME!"

23:27 01262011


	11. Know Your Role

Disclaimer: Nodame Cantabile is the property of Ninomiya Tomoko, etc. Borrowing for entertainment. No monetary gains whatsoever.

Know Your Role

_Feb 7, 2011: A faithful whore_

Chiaki Shinichi, a talented, young conductor who has been steadily conquering audiences worldwide, came home to his apartment one day, to the girlish giggle of his long-time girlfriend. Rather than girlish, weird was usually the more applicable term for most things related to Nodame, unless she was in the middle of playing a role to impress somebody. Sure enough, he heard the answering titter of an unfamiliar female voice.

"Oh my, Miss Noda," it exclaimed. "How perfectly situated this apartment is. I can imagine how it was like for you in your student days, in this building with other gifted musicians, a tureen of talent in the City of Lights!"

"We certainly had good times here," Nodame said with a sigh. Come to think of it, Chiaki did remember her mention something about an "intimate look" interview for a famous lifestyle magazine that Elise, the talent manager from Tartarus, had been wary about agreeing to. It finally gave the manager an excuse to hire an image consultant, and Nodame had no excuse to dissuade her. This Nodame they were fashioning, it seemed, was mature and calm, a capering genius that only revealed its ebullient madness on stage, a conundrum that was enticing instead of freakish. "My boyfriend is quite a masterful chef."

A masterful chef? Chiaki nearly snorted and wondered where she pulled that one from. Somehow he preferred the simple, "Chiaki-senpai's cooking is the best! I must have gained more than ten pounds my first week in France," he heard from another interview. It's bound to be interesting, he thought, pausing at the door that was left ajar. From where he was, he glimpsed the blonde head of Elise, no doubt supervising Nodame and the image consultant.

"And as you can see, he is a man of discerning tastes," the pianist continued. "Nodame came from the countryside; I won't be able to tell you the difference between a cocktail table and a stool. He keeps the house."

Discerning tastes? Keeps the house? Isn't changing Nodame's speech patterns a bit too much?

"I have very little function in Chiaki-senpai's life, see."

What the hell—

"Or so it seems to the outside world." He could tell the idiot was wearing a lonely look she liked to put on when feeling sorry for herself. She had probably collaborated with Elise in coming up with that angle, the idiot. "I think I want to redefine, 'trophy wife.' That's one of my mini projects."

"Miss Noda, at the rate you're going, I'd say you can find yourself any number of trophy husband's out there!"

"Why thank you, but I'm too simple to keep the interest of trophy husbands, anyway. I think I'm more of like the rare toy that comes with a meal set. You'll only appreciate it if you're actually looking for it, and even then, there's not much you can do about it. It makes kids happy though."

"M-Mr. Chiaki is an accomplished musician by his own right." The consultant managed to plow on, even with Elise's demonic aura at the slip of one of Nodame's weird metaphors. "1st place in the Platini Competition, permanent conductor of a respected and established orchestra with a rich history, he is on his way to becoming a name to watch for in the industry. I had the pleasure of attending one of his performances. Perhaps, it's because of his stoic exterior but I was pleasantly astounded by the expressiveness of his handling of even the most delicate of emotions." Chiaki was personally astounded that Elise was praising him like this, even while indirectly. "Would you call yourself his muse, then, Miss Noda?"

"Oh, no," came the quick answer, much to Chiaki's dismay. "Like I said, Chiaki-senpai is a genius. What he can't say, he can definitely show through music. You know when you try to keep your fart in, when it finally escapes, it sounds much louder and stickier than if you'd had just let it rip? GYAMMO!"

That was the sound of a manager hitting her charge with the gigantic designer handbag.

"I-I mean to say," Nodame continued, getting back into her character. "Chiaki-senpai is a man with a mysterious palate. His need for me is something more primal and basic than inspiration or housekeeping."

"He's certainly popular among the ladies." Did this script really come from Elise? Chiaki thought about just going in and telling them to break it up. What was the point of making up stuff for an interview? Failing that, he could always watch them practice in the comforts of a couch, maybe give constructive criticism. "Does that ever bother you?"

"Oh, but Chiaki-senpai has been the Japanese classical music sex symbol since we were students in Japan." Nodame laughed throatily, an unfamiliar way that made the hair on his nape stand on end. "Why would it bother me, when the only place in the wide world he can ever return to is our Parisian love nest?"

"Oh my! You don't mean imply that the proud Mr Shinichi Chiaki is Miss Noda's personal, at-her-beck-and-call, manwhore?"

"An eight-year faithful one, at that. Didn't I say he likes _certain_ things? Ohohohoho~"

The practice interview was cut off at that point when the accused deviant crashed their party and used his luggage as a deadly projectile with practiced ease, just as the manager from Tartarus unleashed her own brand of hell.

For his own sanity, Chiaki Shinichi decided he needed to stop eavesdropping on conversations.

23:44

02072011


End file.
